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“My Name is Chantelle” Chapter 1. A lovely night in jail.

If you’ve followed this blog for a few years, then you’ve read many of my stories about the battered women and convicted felons I’ve worked with. I am now writing the book I promised them, many years ago. The book is about Chantelle and myself, and how our two opposite lives came together one day and how we helped each other. I hope you will join me and cheer me on and support me as I write this.

She sat on the edge of her bunk, eyes closed and reminding herself to breathe. She breathed through her mouth because her cell smelled of urine and hot dogs. They must have been serving hot dogs and beans again, along with a piece of bread and cold coffee. Her lips were swollen and her head hurt where she had slammed it on the dashboard of the car the night before. She hung her head down and tried to block out the sounds. The constant talking and clanking and yelling of the people in the ward never stopped. Her cell mate was snoring soundly with her back turned towards her. She was huge and her orange jumpsuit barely contained her massive ass and thighs. The fabric was stretched thin against her back and she could see the outline of the woman’s bra. The cell mate arrived yesterday and immediately wanted to chat with her. She asked her her name.

“Jane. My name is Jane,” she replied. Jane seemed like a good name to use. It was the name first given to her as an infant and her head hurt too much to be clever or witty. Jane was her fallback name. It came out of her mouth effortlessly.

“Hi Jane, nice to meet you. What they got you in here for? Oh, my name’s Clarice,” she said and extended her large and black hand towards her. Jane remained seated as she stuck out her hand and gave it a limp shake. She didn’t like being touched but it seemed easier to shake hands rather than explain it. Clarice looked at her for a moment and then sat down on the bunk across from her.

“Is that your bunk?” she asked Jane. “I hope it’s OK for me to take this one…”

“It’s fine. I’ve been the only one in here today,” she said. Why was it people could never take the hint when you didn’t want to talk? Jane was tired of talking and explaining herself. It seemed like people had an urge to tell you all about themselves, when in fact, no one gave a fuck. Maybe they just liked to hear themselves talk. Maybe it made them feel important or at least alive. Jane didn’t know and didn’t care. She leaned back and stretched out on her bunk and stared at the stained mattress above her.

The place was dingy, but that was to be expected. It’s not like this was a 5 star hotel. It wasn’t even a 1 star hotel. It was the County Jail and she was being housed, fed, and clothed on the taxpayer’s dollar. She knew that because she had been reminded of it her entire life.

“Oh is that right? Well it’s nice to meet you,” Clarice said and sat down. She looked around but there wasn’t much to see. Two bunk beds and a toilet in-between them. Concrete floors and walls and bars across the front, which looked across to another cell. They were in Ward C. The hallway was long with 30 cells built-in. All of them were full. This was where they brought everyone and stored them, to be sorted out later. Jane couldn’t count the number of times she had been placed here. Four? Or maybe five? It didn’t matter, she knew the routine.

She’d go up before a judge, be assigned a public defender, and plead innocent. This would annoy the judge, but a court date would be set. She’d not be able to make bail because no way Razor had the money to bail her out. He hadn’t done that the last time or two. She was getting older but not too old to keep working. Razor had other younger and prettier girls he would take care of before her. If he bailed her out, great. If not, she was prepared to do her sentence again and wait it out. At least this way, she had a place to sleep and food during the day. It was boring as shit, but it was better than being out in the cold. December was a horrible time to be a whore. Trying to look enticing without freezing to death was impossible. She had her regular customers, but they were home with their beautiful wives and adorable children for the holidays in their warm houses with wonderful food on the table. She imagined their homes as she lay there, listening to Clarice prattle on.